


Snow Globes in July

by bellafarallones



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Road Trips, Vampires, identity theft, vampire!Ted Cruz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellafarallones/pseuds/bellafarallones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raphael Edward “Ted” Cruz is a vampire, enamored with a serial killer (The Zodiac, who I’ve named Sam Sykes for convenience) who wants to join the legions of the undead as well. This fic takes place in the summer of 1989, after Cruz finished his first year at Princeton university. [[UPDATED 3/27: I've done some major cuts and revisions, and added the bee conspiracy.]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Globes in July

June 1, 1989

 

Sam turned away from the window. The motel parking lot was empty except for his own white station wagon. “There’s a diner across the street, did you see? We could have breakfast there.”

 

Raphael raised his head and looked at Sam for a moment before he nodded.

 

Diners always suited Raphael. The neon lights did good things to his pale features, and old-fashioned American comfort food reminded him of home. As they waited for their food to arrive, he stared down at the table. The reflection of the light fixture above him was fuzzy, like he was looking through water.

 

Sam shifted uncomfortably. Last night, nothing had been stronger than Raphael pulling him away, knocking the gun out of his hand. The hard toe of Raphael’s black leather shoe pressing down on his worn right sneaker reminded him that  _ this isn’t over yet.  _

 

The waitress slid a plate of toast and fried eggs in front of Raphael, and he thanked her without looking up. He was scolding himself for thinking Sam would change, for trusting him, for  _ loving  _ him. But what could he do? Someday Sam would die and he’d be free of him. He knew in his bones that Sam could never be permitted to live forever. He would destroy the world. Murder is one thing, but dwelling on it like Sam did is quite another.

 

“Raphael...” Sam finally pleaded from behind his pile of blueberry pancakes after the silence became unbearable. 

 

Raphael paused in meticulously cutting his breakfast into bite-size pieces. “You promised,” he said. “You promised you wouldn’t try to kill anyone.”

 

“I have to stay with you. Raphael, I love you! I don’t ever want to die and leave you!”

 

“Oh, and carelessly slaughtering people on the street is the way to go about it? Don’t tell me you’re like every petty killer who thinks they’ll become a vampire if they eat enough blood. It doesn’t work like that.”

 

“No, that’s not- look, Raphael, old habits die hard. I’m sorry.”

 

Raphael focused on the glass syrup bottle in front of Sam. It was covered in sticky fingerprints. “I never can order pancakes from a restaurant,” he said mildly. “I’m too used to the way my mom did it. She used to melt the butter and the syrup together; made it ten times better.”

 

Sam said nothing.

 

Raphael leaned over the table. “‘Sorry’ was all you needed to say, Sam. I love you too.”

  
  


_ July 7, 1971 _

 

_ Dear Mr Sykes,  _

 

_ Thank you for your keeping in touch. I admit, your correspondence is more interesting than most of what I usually read. I have carefully considered your new proposal, but my answer has not changed. You have not convinced me that you would be a valuable member of our order.  _

 

_ I trust you’ve read our mission statement? We work in silence and secrecy. My memoir recounts a story I always like to tell to prospective members- I was walking through the woods at dusk, the leaves of the trees silhouetted black against the sky, which still had some light in it. I watched the leaves rustling in the wind, and slowly I realized that some of the leaves were not leaves at all but bats. I didn’t notice them swooping through the treetops, going about their night business, and if I hadn’t happened through a clearing I probably never would have realized at all. That night must have been two hundred years ago now- how time does fly!- but I remember it as though it were yesterday.  _

 

_ You are not a bat. The fingers of a bat stretch into wings. No true bat could wield a pen like you do, nor devise impossible ciphers for the sole purpose of getting attention. Your actions have been so poorly aligned with our values, I’m rather confused as to why you wish to join us in the first place. _

 

_ Regrettably, _

 

_ Mr Magnus Effect _

_ President, Order of the Silver Spoon _

  
  


June 3, 1989

 

The souvenir shop wasn’t in Denver, not really, but it was near enough to a ski resort that it made good business. But in early June, it was deserted save for Sam and Raphael.

 

“So, what brings you two gentlemen in today?” asked the proprietor as soon as they entered.  “Gotta get away from the wife?”

 

“We’re road tripping together. Trying to get from San Diego to New Jersey in a summer,” said Raphael.

 

“New Jersey? What’s there to see in New Jersey? We got ugly buildings out here!” The proprietor laughed, and Sam joined in heartily. 

 

“I’m going back to school in the fall,” said Raphael.

 

“Ah.” The proprietor nodded sagely. “Well, I suppose you won’t have time to really enjoy these mountains if you’re just passing through. Most of the business I get outside ski season is in dealing bait, you see.” He gestured to a green, softly humming refrigerator case full of white plastic containers labeled in Sharpie.

 

“Is that… eel?” asked Sam.

 

“Yeah, most people wouldn’t think about eating eel, but other fish have no such compunctions!” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, most people wouldn’t think about how easy they are to catch, either!”

 

“Good business! Is that why you’ve got that?” Raphael pointed up at a plate mounted on the wall above the proprietor’s head. It was a decorative platter, ceramic with dark green varnish, depicting a mass of writhing eels. 

 

“Oh, yeah. My daughter-in-law is studying art history, and she made me that thing for Christmas last year. Every time someone walks in here I hope they’ll slam the door hard enough to make it fall off the wall and break, but I haven’t gotten lucky yet.”

 

They all laughed.

 

“Well, you’re right we won’t have much time to hang around. But we’d like to pick up some souvenirs to prove we went to Denver, even if we don’t have any meaningful memories outside our hotel room,” said Raphael.

 

“I see how it is! I’ve got some knickknacks.” The proprietor pointed.

 

Raphael thanked him and started picking his way through the shelves, but Sam hung back. “Do you know of any good liquor stores around here?"

 

A moment later, he appeared at Raphael’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t people skiing here have seen enough snow?” 

 

“I guess if this is their once-a-year vacation from somewhere hot, they might want to take some home with them.” Raphael shook the snow globe and watched the white particles slowly settle on tiny plastic buildings.

 

“I’d like to take it home.” Sam pressed a kiss to the back of Raphael’s neck. “It’d remind me of you.”

 

7:25 AM- Room 661, Econo Lodge Hotel, Denver, CO

 

Sam had been confident. A desperate man with one last hope is always confident. If this didn’t work, nothing would. But Raphael had refused. Sam had abased himself, begging a severely inebriated Raphael to  _ turn me, make me like you _ , but Raphael had refused.

 

His sleeping form looked peaceful. Round shoulders pressed into white hotel pillows like smooth boulders on the forest floor.

 

Perhaps that last stand hadn’t been the last after all. Sam’s determined, scheming brain had begun to plot again. He slipped out of the room. This wouldn’t take long. 

 

9:00 AM- Public Restroom, Denver CO

 

The blood, thin as water, had gotten into all the little lines on Sam’s hands. His calloused palms looked almost like they’d been crisscrossed by roots. He forced himself to lower his hands into the sink and watched the water turn pink.

 

When he was satisfied his hands were clean and dry enough not to damage the stationery, he sat down on a bench outside and wrote a letter. 

 

_ June 4, 1989 _

 

_ Dear Mr Effect, _

 

_ I apologize for not responding for so many years. But now, finally, I believe I have something to add. You were quite right that my behavior was not in line with your distinguished Order, but I’ve changed. Grown older, grown wiser. I suppose you wouldn’t know what it’s like to look back upon your younger self as though they were a different person, but take my word for it- I’ve changed. _

 

_ In the months after your last letter, I spent a lot of time thinking about what you said. At first I was angry. Then I was disappointed in myself. I realized that you were completely correct. I didn’t have a good reason to live forever. That’s why I didn’t write back. But I believe I have a reason to now. _

 

_ You see, Mr Effect, I’ve met someone. A member of your Order, someone I couldn’t stand to live without. Someone I couldn’t stand to die without. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

 

_ Samuel Sykes _

 

_ P.S. I took your advice about discretion regarding my little hobby, by the way. _

 

10:00 AM- Room 661, Econo Lodge Hotel, Denver, CO

 

Raphael took a long time waking up. The combination of fluffy white bedclothes and bright sunlight coming through the window made him feel for a moment like he was in Heaven.

 

June 5, 1989

 

Appius Claudius talked to his bees. What beekeeper wouldn’t? Trucking cases and cases of them around the country, wherever pollination was needed. The bees had always been his business partners. In February, they’d worked on California apples. March meant apple blossoms in Washington. And then back up to his farm in North Dakota, where the bees would make honey until winter forced them south again.

 

Tonight was his first evening back in North Dakota for the year. Huge rectangular hives stood around his house in rough concentric circles like soldiers at attention. After dinner, he opened the door to the garage like he was returning to a lover he hadn’t seen in a long time. He swept the tarp off his Harley and breathed in awe and dust.

 

June 6, 1989

 

Magnus Effect put down the letter. He sat behind a huge cherry desk, given to him as a parting gift by his predecessor, crammed inside a closet of an office. Most of the members of the Order of the Silver Spoon were loath to pay for expensive real estate. Still, this wasn’t the worst place Magnus had ever worked. 

 

He remembered Samuel Sykes very well. He remembered the Zodiac’s incoherent writing style, remembered reading about the string of dramatic killings in Southern California as they occurred. Remembered the first letter Sam had ever sent him, begging for the sweet gift of the Silver Spoon. Immortality. Power. Freedom to change your form to whatever body catches your fancy.

 

For most members, the power was only a tertiary benefit. The bats tend to be dedicated, people who convinced Magnus that their life’s work could not be cut short by death. 

 

He knew that Sam was lying. There weren’t many women members of the Order, and none of them were even in the general vicinity of Sam’s Southern California home. It was Magnus’s job to secure fake identification for all the members of the Order. None of them had spoken to him about a marriage licence. 

 

Clearly, Sam had matured. He’d gotten a little bit better at lying. Magnus dropped the letter into the battered wire wastebasket next to his desk.

 

_ June 24, 1989 _

 

_ Dear Mr Effect, _

 

_ Do you know what Mr Claudius has been doing with himself lately? I got an order from a Mr Appius Claudius, Migratory Beekeeper, enclosing a blank check for enough black and yellow LEDs to cover a motorcycle. He even asked what date we planned to arrive in Sturgis so he could be there with his bike as soon as possible. Is this a new Order event I haven’t heard of? _

 

_ Sincerely, _

 

_ Blake Lansom _

 

June 30, 1989

 

The annual membership due of the Silver Spoon was not high, but everyone knew to pay Magnus Effect’s real operating fee. Information. If anything odd was happening, Mr Effect wanted to know about it. Every day his inbox was piled with mail, and he went through a lot of paper responding to it all, but it was worth it. Sometimes, something as terrible as this happened.

 

Magnus’s first instinct was to write to Raphael. He couldn’t handle this by himself. He wrenched one of his drawers open, looking for stationary. The knob, shaped like a honeybee, seemed to burn his hands. 

 

The road trip. Magnus’s thoughts caught up with him. He didn’t know exactly where Raphael was, so there was no way to get a letter to him.

 

July 1, 1989

 

The first sunrays of July found Magnus hurrying out of the office building holding a gray plaid suitcase. He could drive up to North Dakota alone; he didn’t, after all,  _ need  _ his friend’s help.

 

Appius Claudius’s old Roman family had always been obsessed with bees. The Claudians were the only patrician family to use the name Appius, which Magnus supposed they did to pay homage to the group of bees who aided them on the path to power and riches.  _ Apis,  _ of course, is Latin for bee. Other less wealthy Romans also held the name. Presumably these families were associated with the same cult of bee-worshippers. The Appian Way was named for its constructor, Appius Claudius Caecus, but naming for the first name rather than the family name was unusual. Perhaps it was really named for the bees.

 

July 5, 1989

 

As luck would have it, they found each other in the parking lot of a convenience store somewhere outside Chicago.

 

“Raphael!” screamed Magnus. “RAPHAEL!”

 

Raphael turned around, and recognition turned his face to water.

 

Magnus was upon him in an instant, gripping his white shirted elbows.

 

“I can’t believe I found you!”

 

“Magnus!”

 

They embraced. “Oh, you have no idea. No idea what’s been happening.” 

 

“What happened?”

 

“I couldn’t get ahold of you on the road, but Appius is plotting something. The bees. He’s up in North Dakota, I’m going to find him, he’s doing something with motorcycles and I don’t know what.”

 

“Hold on, let me just get Sam-”

 

“Forget the murderer! This is  _ our  _ business, Raphael.”

 

“I can’t just leave him behind, Mag. I don’t know what he’d do if I ditched him.”

 

Magnus sighed loudly. “All right.” His hand didn’t leave Raphael’s elbow as he went into the store and explained to Sam that here was Mr Effect, something had come up, and they were turning around and driving to North Dakota.

 

Raphael joined Magnus in his car with Sam following behind. There was a lot to catch up on.

 

“I can’t believe I wasn’t keeping tabs on Appius before. I should have known he would do something like this.” Magnus pounded on the steering wheel in frustration. 

 

“There was no way you could have known. Every person in the order has got something weird going on, besides the whole, yknow, being a vampire thing. You couldn’t possibly keep track of them.”

 

Yes, everyone had something weird going on, but an ancient bee mind-control cult was pretty up there. “But even before, when he was President. You’d think I would be more critical of someone whose job I wanted, not less. I never questioned why he suddenly went into retirement. Didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, you know.”

 

“We all thought he just wanted to spend more time with the bees.”

 

Both men laughed.

 

“Driving this far has given me a bit of a better idea of what it’s like out on the open road, you know. Your road trip was a good idea. I agree that we are all at risk of forgetting how the world changes around us.”

 

“Some things haven’t changed. The Rockies are still gorgeous, the people are still lovely.”

 

“Fluorescent lighting only borrows from the stars, which have shone neon since the beginning of time?”

 

Raphael swatted at his friend’s shoulder. “You nerd. I suppose you’ve got nothing better to do than write poetry holed up in that office of yours.”

 

August 6, 1989

 

The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally borrowed from the stars, too. Strings of tiny, multi-colored lights hung across streets packed with gleaming metal. Sam had struck up a conversation with several of the motorcycle racers, and Magnus, who looked uncomfortable and out-of-place in his rumpled suit, pulled Raphael aside.

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about Sam. Why him?”

 

Raphael’s wide cheeks flushed a little. “I like him.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I get that I can’t make fun of your choices since I’m one of them and all. But seriously. You must know of his… particular ambition.”

 

“I do, Magnus.”

 

“You don’t support it, do you?”

 

“No. He’s lovely, but not really… our kind of person.”

 

“That’s exactly what I said when I replied to his request back in 1971! And just a few weeks ago he wrote me again!”

 

“What did he say!?”

 

“I threw the letter out, but he was making his same case again. He said he’d matured since the seventies and that he’d  _ met someone _ . A member of the Order. Someone he didn’t want to live or die without.”

 

Suddenly Raphael was very interested in a hot dog vendor’s cart rolling by on his left. “He- he really said that?”

 

“Yes! And when I read it I didn’t believe him. Jesus, Raphael, you haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”

 

“No, of course not. I can see how poor of a fit he is for the Order.”

 

“Good. That’s why I didn’t bring this up earlier. I was worried that you’d changed. I don’t think you have. But he hasn’t either.”

 

“No, he hasn’t. On day two of this trip I had to drag him away from shooting a couple of lovebirds in an alley.”

 

“His letter also said he’d gotten more  _ discrete.  _ Presumably he’s killed more people since. What’re we gonna do?”

 

Raphael clasped his hands together behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Luckily, that’s your problem as President, not mine.”

 

Two streets away, Samuel Sykes caught sight of the most interesting motorcycle of all. The shining black and yellow horizontal stripes looked new, but the paint job faded in comparison to the flashing LEDs covering it like little round scales. The man astride it was thin, maybe five foot seven, and had a greased gray pompadour. His face was only slightly more lined than Sam’s, but faded somehow. Like a white T shirt sent through the wash so many times it turns grubby gray. 

 

August 8, 1989

 

Since the town of Sturgis itself was booked full of motorcycle rally-goers, Sam, Raphael, and Magnus had gotten a cabin in nearby Custer State Park. Appius rode up at seven in the morning and burst in to find the three men sitting around a table drinking ghastly instant coffee.

 

“A little buzzzzzing bee told me that you all have come to try to zzzzztop me,” said Appius Claudius. He was buzzing himself, his voice shaking like he’d had too much caffeine.

 

“Where’d you hear that?”

 

“Alcohol is a great loozzzzener of the lipzzzzz, Magnuzzzz.”

 

Oh. Blake Lansom. Well, he didn’t care if their confrontation was moved up a few hours.

 

“What are you even trying to do?”

 

“My little darlingzzzz are looking to exzzzpand their circle of influenzzzzze. Here, after all the rallygoerzzzzzz are da _ zzzzz _ led by me, izzzz the perfect place.” Raphael caught sight of a single bee crawling out from under Appius’s collar and clinging to the pasty skin of his neck. Suddenly, his black silk shirt and sharp lemon-yellow suit seemed loose enough to conceal an entire hive.

 

“You’re gonna try to expand your circle of mind-control?”

 

“Exzzzzzactly, Magnuzzzzz. And there’s nothing you can do to zzzzzztop me!”

 

His speech made, Appius turned to leave. Magnus, Sam, and Raphael got up from the table and followed him onto their tiny porch.

 

A herd of buffalo had surrounded the circle of cabins like the rising tide. Their snuffling and stomping wasn’t quiet, but Appius seemed oblivious. Perhaps his buzzing blocked it out. He mounted his bike. The rippling LEDs were much less impressive in the morning sun. 

 

Magnus remembered something the park ranger had said yesterday in the visitor’s center. The motorcycle rally was always a difficult time, because a motorcycle sounds like the noise an aggressive male buffalo in heat makes to challenge a rival. Bikers have been killed because they rode within hearing range of a buffalo.

 

Appius revved his engine. The hulking male buffalo standing about six feet away was not impressed.

 

The bees didn’t think of the buffalo as a threat, so neither did Appius. Even after thousands of years of bee-cult, the bees weren’t used to micro-managing a solid human mass. No buffalo can trample a swarm of bees; it would separate and fly away. Appius Claudius, however, was a different story.

 

A short silver knife with a red jewel-encrusted handle slid down Magnus’s bathrobe sleeve into his palm. “Well, I brought this all the way from New York for nothing.”

 

6:30 PM October 31, 1989, New York City, NY

 

It might just have been bad luck. Maybe the NYPD superstitiously increases its coverage on Halloween night. Or maybe they were desperate to catch the serial murderer who’d been embarrassing them for the past month.

 

Either way, there was a cop car close enough to hear the gunshots.

 

Sam had been curled up low on a fire escape, daydreaming about Raphael, when a young couple walked past underneath him. God. They got to be together, when he and Raphael didn’t. They were even together in death.

 

Sam leaped from his perch, hit the ground hard, and sprinted past the bodies to his car, which was luckily parked at the opposite end of the alley from where the cop car had just appeared.

 

The sirens behind him blended into the sounds of the city. Sam missed California, but here he was close to Raphael and could be on Mr Effect’s doorstep the instant he finally wrote back. That detour to North Dakota had been painful- he couldn’t say anything with Raphael right there. He buckled his seatbelt with one hand as he ground his foot down onto the accelerator. He had a plan. His one goal, obtaining a ticket to immortality, pulled him along like a puppet on a string.

 

It was dark inside the car, the streetlights reflecting over and over in the windows. The gun at his waist weighed heavy against his thigh. 

 

Sam crashed into the lobby of the office building in a shower of rubble and flame. He wrenched open the door and hit the ground running, bursting through the door in the back of the lobby to the staircase without slowing.  The beige-painted metal of the stairs began to spin under his feet as he climbed.

 

The door to Mr Effect’s office yielded to one strong kick. It was bare and plain, except for the paper skeleton on the wall, which was Mr Effect’s concession to the season. When Mr Effect looked up, he was staring down the barrel of a gun. 

 

“Turn me, or I’ll shoot.”

 

Mr Effect didn’t take long to think. He gingerly got up from his desk and moved around it to stand silently before Sam. 

 

“Mr Sykes,” he murmured against Sam’s neck just before his sharp teeth sunk into the soft flesh. 

 

Sam shuddered, and the gun he’d been holding awkwardly against Mr. Effect dropped back to his waist.

 

“Welcome to the club.”

 

“Thank you.” Sam vaulted over the desk and crashed through the window. His body seemed to hover for a moment before shrinking into a bat.

 

When the police found the ruined door hanging off its hinges, Mr Effect pointed wordlessly to the smashed window behind him. The cops gathered around and looked down. The office’s excellent view consisted of factories and, directly below, filthy water. The sky was too dark to discern the speck heading south, even if anyone had been looking.

 

“I call not having to fill out the death certificate.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I finished! You finished! Thank you so much to everyone who helped me along this whacked-up journey. Matthew, for your out-of-character level of involvement. I couldn't have written this without your creativity, endless patience, and sensible editing skills. Luc, thank you for your Tumblr promotions. Reilly, for encouraging this idea from the beginning. Claire B and Thea, for your good humor. Claire C, for geeking out with me about bees and Romans. The entire club of Skiffy, and especially Milan's wise advice and willingness to lend me the podium.


End file.
